


i fell asleep beneath the flowers

by redphlox



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6536380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redphlox/pseuds/redphlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders if he'll be around this time next year to bloom along with Spring, to be with Maka, to be invigorated once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i fell asleep beneath the flowers

**Author's Note:**

> SoMa with lots of Soul angst and hurt/comfort-ish. Warnings: depression and suicidal thoughts. No character death!

_Daydream, I fell asleep beneath the flowers, for a couple of hours, on a beautiful day_

_Daydream, I dream of you amid the flowers, for a couple of hours, such a beautiful day_

\- “daydream in blue” by i monster

x

He wonders if he’ll be around this time next year to bloom along with Spring.

It’s not that he’s sick - not _physically_ , not in the way that a stethoscope can detect, nor the type a combination of rest, antibiotics, and a dark night’s sleep can cure. Not even a mother’s gentle kiss to a feverish forehead can fix this type of illness. This is a silent disease that exists in his head, a lonely one that lurks and bites ruthlessly in search for prey, one no one can fight for him. Static clings to his brain like lint, and he’s afraid it’ll clutter a vital part that keeps him alive, that he’ll go through with the un-doable, that he’ll be _gone_ for _good_.

Sometimes, he thinks that would be okay.

He’s not sure what’s worse: the lack of motivation that is akin to missing a limb or three, emptiness where unbridled anxiety once roared like crumpling metal, or the seesaw between aching restlessness and drowsiness potent enough to induce a permanent coma.

Sometimes, he thinks that would be okay. Rest is all he wants.

What does slightly, almost, kind-of, _maybe_ scare him is that the thought of losing the battle doesn’t seem so bad, not when there (he) isn’t much to lose, not when he’s a pile of walking bones waiting to break at any moment, like a dandelion bursting during a sudden breeze. Sure, he’s cracked too many times now not to know that he’ll probably survive this round, but there must be a point where everything is irreparably damaged.

Glass breaks. Wood splinters. Flowers wither. Hair falls and teeth decay. Hearing is lost, colors fade, and feelings change.

Everything is temporary, even skin.

Sometimes he thinks he’s only delaying the inevitable.

How long, though - how much longer does he have?

That’s not for him to decide. He’s lost control, given in to the unrest. Recently, each hour brings a new wave of mixed emotions that knock on his sternum and he’s too shaky to know which emotion will snip the last thread keeping him alive. By this point, he’s holding his head above the water out of habit.

The downhill fall is steep and far; he’s fragile - he just wants an end. Whatever that would look like.

Precious Moments of Clarity exist between the episodes of heavy mists that obscure his mind’s eye, but they’re shorter and farther between. Death seems like it’s on its way to greet him. He sticks his neck out into danger almost on the daily, as if flirting, as if _asking_ for his soul to be fetched, but the irony that he’s more dangerous to himself than any kishin or opponent could ever be is hilarious to him - in the unfunny, bitter kind of way.

There is just something inherently _wrong_ with him. It’s not his teeth, his bleachy hair, the sallowness of his flesh, nor the bruise-like stains underneath his weary eyes. The stars simply didn’t align when he was born. What’s not right with him has everything to do with the intangible - the way he feels too deeply, remembers things too precisely. His Chemistry. His Soul. They’re Flawed. Damaged. Worse than Broken: Defective.

Nothing is really wrong, but nothing is entirely right, and that crushes him.

But it’s okay - he _can_ be okay, he guesses. There are Moments of Clarity. He holds on to those like a key to escape a doorless room. Bursts of energy usually leave him more depleted than before, so maybe these Moments are evil? Lately, he’s been labeling them as such, as double-crossing charlatans. Clarity does remind him that he has Things to live for, but do they have to drain him, does he have to sacrifice _so much_ for a few Moments of fleeting peace?

Is it worth it? How much longer does he have?

 _  
_ It’s not for him to decide. 

But the End is near, maybe, maybe. Even things that once held a purpose don’t resonate with him as intensely. Teeth-chattering shivering prevents him from turning into a scythe for too long. Nightmares don’t daunt him anymore - he suffers through them, waking as if he hadn’t slept a wink. He forgets to eat and he puts his shirt on inside-out and backwards without realizing it.

He’s a mess, but he only knows it when someone asks, “Are you okay?”

Maka worries for him. Maka, whose fierce look once, sometimes, always, kind of, maybe, still does-ish make his heart stutter and his cheeks warm. He thinks? It’s impossible to tell if the tingly feeling climbing up his spine like vines are because he’s genuinely in love, or because she gifts him the gentleness he can’t give himself.

Surely these are all signs of looming death. He used to be so sure about how he felt about Maka - how she’s the optimal balance of stubborn fearlessness and stunning grace, how he’d trade his blood for the promise of her safety. Sure, that passion is still there, but he’s not sure if it’s distant because his feelings have changed, or if it’s a casualty of another depressive episode.

It’s like he keeps being set on fire and his only method of outlasting the flames is to throw himself to the ground with his hands covering his head until one of them (Fire vs Soul Evans) wins. But even when the smoke dissipates and he can see a little more clearly, he’s not sure if it’s a victory because he has to rebuild, rebuild, rebuild, only to burn again.

He’s not alone - he knows this, knows Maka is there to hold his hand, that Black*Star is there to slap his back and yell about his good qualities to the world. He knows that Tsubaki will quietly make him a cup of tea, that Liz will play his favorite records, that Patti will punch his throat to inspire him to fight, and that Kid will help fold his clothes when coordinating movements is futile.

But is he worth it? Are they wasting their time?

He feels like a rusty machine whose gears are slowing down.

“I want to be cute, and I want to be fierce,” Maka is saying when the haze relents to allow another Moment of Clarity. They’re drifting along the beach, waves lapping at their bare feet, Maka’s sundress rippling in the breeze. Soul’s following a few steps behind her - he’d follow her anywhere of course, so it’s a requirement that he be a few beats behind, never beside.

The view is beautiful. Always.

“I can’t believe Black*Star told me I could only be one - it’s like he’s never met me before!”

Soul shrugs. “You can be both.”

“Mhhmm. I can be both. Fierce and cute,” she echoes, stopping to spread out her arms as if to embrace the wind tossing their hair around. The sky bleeds pink and purple and blue and orange. Clouds don’t exist. He and Maka have wandered to a more secluded area of a tiny beach, a more rocky area that slows down their steps, but he can tell by the way she holds her head high that a ghost of a smile is lighting up her face.

“You _are_ both,” he reassures. He just wants her to be happy, even if that value is muted, dull.

She turns to look at him, green eyes incandescent in the dying day. “I know. And so are you.” And she laughs a laugh that fills his soul with softness. A glimmer of sudden seriousness adds a mysterious smolder to her features. It sparks life within him. “I can’t believe we’re back in Italy after all that happened ten years ago,” she muses, scooping her hair up to prevent it from sailing around.

“I hate it here,” he admits. “But I’m glad I’m here with you.” He should have died - no one should have been able to survive a sword slice across the chest, but he’s not good at anything so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he lived. He regrets not dying. It’s like he missed his chance.

Her understanding smile unravels him. “You’re so strong, Soul.”

“People change,” he says, and it breaks his heart in the tiniest of ways - like an unnoticeable tear in a paper cup that will leak when it’s being filled. How much longer does he have? He wants to hold on - for Maka, for _himself_ , for another haunting moment like right now, to feel invigorated with hope by Spring.

All he can do is wait it out.

It hurts.


End file.
